


Context Clues

by Skirtswithpockets



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 21:42:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12094023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skirtswithpockets/pseuds/Skirtswithpockets
Summary: Phryne isn't the only sleuth at Wardlow.





	Context Clues

**Author's Note:**

> After reading everyone else's work for so long, I'm finally posting one of my own! It's short and sweet and only rated G. (I've gotta walk before I can run.)

Mr. Butler’s job was all about context. In order to best serve his employer, he always needed to be one step ahead. And to do that, he had to read the clues. He found that the most important—and most delicate—of his duties concerned the breakfast tray. It was crucial that he be attuned to the activities of the previous evening as they directly affected the morning routine.

When Miss Fisher spent the evening alone, it was a safe bet that she’d sleep until mid-morning and require a light breakfast of strong black coffee and buttered toast. But if she had company, extra sleuthing was required. The more clues he had regarding her guest, the better he knew how to serve. Based on his evening observations, he would know whether to serve a quick continental breakfast or plan a hearty brunch.

This particular morning, Mr. Butler was halfway up the stairs with a tray of coffee and toast when he heard a male voice and distinctly amorous sounds emanating from her boudoir. He stopped abruptly, surprised by this turn of events, and wracked his brain for who this guest could be. Finding no clear answer, he retreated to the kitchen as quietly as possible and set the tray on the table.

The ticking of the kitchen clock was the only sound as he stood still, replaying the events of the previous evening. Miss Fisher had spent the night reading in the parlor. D.H. Lawrence, if he recalled correctly. He was fairly certain she had been wearing her favorite peach pajamas and black robe, so she clearly wasn’t going out. And she wouldn’t be dressed so informally if she was expecting company. Unless….

He quickly checked the hall table for clues. No coat, no hat, nothing. He checked the parlor for an extra glass. No extra glass, but he did note there was still a finger of whisky remaining in Miss Fisher’s, which was unusual. He went to the window to see if a familiar vehicle was parked out front. Nothing. Unwilling to give up hope, he headed through the kitchen and out the back door and—lo and behold—there it was. A black police vehicle parked next to the shed, perfectly placed to be just out of view from the street.

If anyone had been walking past the back gate at this moment, they would have witnessed an older man standing at his back door, sporting a wide grin and chuckling to himself. After thinking for a minute, the older man then softly rubbed his hands together and promptly set about making the Inspector’s favorite tea and a delicious quiche. And—to be safe—a large plate of ham, cheese and mustard pickle sandwiches.  


End file.
